This is not happening to me. It's a cruel joke. It has to be. I've refused to acknowledge any correspondence for the last ten years, so she's going to lure me in with this venomous lie. I really wouldn't put it past her. Regina can be cold and calculating. Especially when she holds a grudge. And boy does she have a grudge against me. Not that I haven't tried to redeem myself. It never really mattered. Forgiveness is not in the woman's vocabulary.

It's a good twenty minute walk from the office to my apartment. But it clears my head, calf muscles burning at the pace my legs set. Music blaring from my earphones helps me keep a good pace. Anything to drown out these thoughts.

I ripped the card up in the end. I couldn't stop reading it so I tore in half and threw it in the garbage. But it was too late because the words are burned into my mind. "I'm dying." Yeah, and I call bullshit. I'd apologised to Marcia, faked an emergency and left. Nachos would not sit well in my stomach right now. Tequila though. That might actually help.

Storybrooke. What is she doing in Storybrooke? I'd always figured she'd stay in New York. She'd grown up in Storybrooke, the idyllic town in Maine. A far cry from the foster homes I'd bounced through in Boston. When we met I remember she reeked of money. All twin-sets and pearls. My polar opposite. I think she took me home with her that first holiday just to piss her mother off.

Undoubtedly that was the reason she was in Storybrooke. Her mother. Cora Mills, had reigned as mayor for most of Regina's life. Indeed a quick google search revealed that Cora Mills was still the mayor. It just didn't make sense. Why would Regina go back there?

I've run out of possible scenarios by the time I get to my apartment building. A shower and beer, not necessarily in that order, that should help. I throw my keys on the kitchen counter and open the fridge. The lid of the beer bottle skitters across the floor after I use the counter top to open it. It's a skill I learnt at college. Regina hated it. I take a long drink from the bottle.

"Fuck."

Regina.

It's like I opened Pandora's Box by opening that card. Memories and thoughts that I've spent the last decade avoiding racing forward. It makes my stomach churn. The beer bottle ends up on the counter, as I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to force the thoughts back into the abyss.

Focus. I need to focus on something. The walls of my apartment are painted grey, there's some framed photography prints on the wall but no personal pictures. In fact, there are few 'personal' items in my apartment. Sure it's homey, but it could easily have fallen out of a IKEA catalogue, there's nothing that says: "This apartment belongs to Emma Swan." In ten years I've put down no roots. There's literally nothing here I couldn't leave behind.

"Fuck."

The realisation of this dawns on me, and my stomach rolls again. It's maybe a habit I formed living in foster homes. Nothing was permanent, everything and everyone was replaceable. Except. Except I had put down roots in New York. There were people who I missed in the first few years. Possessions I had looked at longingly before I walked out the apartment.

My cell phone is in my hand before the rational part of my brain has caught up.

"Mel? Hi it's Emma. Yeah I'm good. Listen I'm going out of state for a few days. I've got some copy done, but I'll email the rest over yeah? Shouldn't be more than a week." I try to assure my boss, as I move around my apartment throwing random items of clothing into a bag. "Great. Thanks." And just like that I've made my decision.

"Fuck." My head rests against the steering wheel of my VW bug as again the absolute futility of debating this takes over. Keys in the ignition. Bag on the backseat. My head is questioning this, its telling me how stupid it is. Opening old wounds. Some not quite as healed as they seem. My heart though. My heart is what makes my hand turn the ignition on. My heart doesn't let me look back, because I wouldn't be me if I didn't at least try right? Right?